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“He’s beautiful,” I gasp in English.
In lieu of a bookshelf lurks the portrait of a young man, no older than eighteen at the most. His dark brown eyes radiate calm, gentle energy that softens me to him instantly.
“Is he your son?” I don’t know how old Jaguar is. His features obscure his age in that he could be anywhere from thirty to fifty.
“He might as well have been,” he replies.
I look back to find him sitting forward, his fingers steepled together, his eyes on me instead of the painting. The use of past tense betrays the significance of the portrait. Whoever the boy was, he’s now dead.
A silly woman would stumble over herself, rushing to console him. I don’t.
“His name?” I ask instead.
He hesitates, though I suspect the dramatic pause isn’t for show. He’s wondering if I’m worthy of hearing this truth or not. Finally, he murmurs, “Juan.”
I look back at the smiling portrait. It’s a fitting name, and I wonder about his importance to a man as coldly detached from the world as Jaguar seems. Someone I think even I would find it hard not to like.
“You were close?”
“No,” he says, rattling my assumptions. “We were brothers. Family. Few relationships compare to that.”
Surprisingly, I recognize a note in his voice that doesn’t fit with the harsh persona I’ve come to know. Pain? It’s the same way I speak about Franco, and I know better than to prod for any more details.
To play it safe, I return to the topic of my initial interest. “I’m sure he had a favorite book,” I say. “I bet you’ve kept it.”
“Some might find your probing insulting, chica,” he scolds. But he isn’t angry. Speaking to him on an intellectual level is one of the few times I feel like we’re having an actual conversation rather than performing our scripted lines in some grand narco play.
“Give me one of your favorite books to read, and I’ll sit here in silence like one of your harem women. I promise.” I raise my pinky finger as I turn to face him.
His expression is stone. “Are you calling me a liar, Lupe?”
I choose to remain silent, holding his penetrating stare without flinching. When he reaches for his desk drawer, I’m well aware he could be aiming to grab a gun. What he does wind up tossing onto the desk, however, is a far more dangerous weapon.
It’s a tattered, dogeared copy of Macbeth. One so withered with age that I suspect he’s reread it more times than he can count. In fact, I have a horrifying sensation that he honored my request to the letter. This book belonged to Juan.
I creep forward and accept it with all the reverence of some holy relic the catholic churches hoard and bring out for special occasions. This is a rare testament to the man behind the mask. I don’t think he’ll give up another piece of himself without a fight, however.
So, I press this trophy to my chest and eagerly retreat to my vacant chair.
He watches me without a word, his expression stone. Eventually, I sense him return to his documents while I uphold my end of our fragile truce.
I read.
The more I do, the more intrigued I become at the mystery that is this complicated man. He is no mindless brute, and he doesn’t read Shakespeare for the supposed culture it endows his image with. The man is all wit and twisted banter, even in the supposed gifts he bestows. I’ve never met anyone so sadistic who has yet to lay a hand on me himself.
“You’re frowning, Lupe,” he says once a few hours have passed in silence, as promised. “Is that book not stimulating enough for you?”
“Oh, I find itverystimulating,” I murmur, looking up. For some reason, I can’t stop stroking the edges of the pages. They’re worn and ravaged to the point of clinging to the binding by a thread. “You’ve insulted me so damn cleverly that I don’t know how I’ll ever return the favor.”
“Oh?” His dangerous smirk reappears. “Insulted you? But I’ve rewarded you, chica. I gave you what you asked for.”
“You gave me a warning,” I counter, still cradling the worn book in my lap. While I can clearly see the gesture for what it is now, I still can’t deny the awe I feel toward this small little paperback. He could have given me a million dollars in cash, and I doubt it would be half as valuable to him. But he isn’t all sentimental. He wanted to see if I had the sense to literally read between the lines. “Macbeth,” I add. “The tale of a man led astray by the ambition of a dangerous, reckless woman. I’m touched you think so highly of me, Jaguar.”
“That’s a hell of a way to read into me merely giving you a book, chica,” he says with a dismissive laugh. For a second, I almost believe him. He’s convincing in his show of arrogance. He must be used to throwing anyone off the scent in this way.
“You don’t fool me,” I say softly, gently closing the book in my grasp. “I will, however, take your warning with a grain of salt. It’s a good thing we aren’t married. You would never take my advice, anyway.”
“Spicy girl,” he says, returning his attention to his documents. “If you’ve grown bored of needling me, I have six rooms and six closets filled with pretty clothes and expensive makeup. You should go make friends with the others in my harem. It’s what you wanted after all, isn’t it?”
